


Pinocchio Boy

by KillTheDirector



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sexual Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillTheDirector/pseuds/KillTheDirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"My name is Q and I don't know if someone, out there, once loved me."</i>
</p><p>I am nothing, I know this. All my life I have been told that I am something to be used, a toy that can be discarded at a moment's notice. Unloved, disgusting (but "<i>Such a clever boy</i>"); I am not something to be cherished, to be considered 'precious'. I am just 'Q'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?nojs=1&thread=56438#t80246

Fingers card through my hair, pulling at the strands just a tad too rough to be considered loving. I want to wince at the feeling, but know if I do that there would be reprimands later; I would rather feel uncomfortable for a moment than have another mark to add to my collection. 

The fingers stop their petting, twisted and tangled in the long strands for a second before the person beneath me decides to move. I grit my teeth at the feeling of hair being ripped out of my scalp, but school my features to appear sleepy and dazed, studying the expression of my Master and noting the tiny smile curling one corner of his mouth. 

He moves the hand that's trapped in my hair to my face, tracing the outline of my lips and jaw; his smile drops and his hand makes a solid sounding slap when it connects with my cheek. I let out a short cry as I tumble back onto the mattress, knowing that his ring had caught me across the cheekbone and drew blood; my Master leans over me, face stormy and mouth pulled to a tight line. 

He lets out a long sigh and gathers me into his arms; I let out an unbidden whimper and flinch when I notice his expression darken a fraction more. "Q, Q, Q..." My Master hums out, nails scratching roughly over my scalp; my fingers curl into tight fists against his bare chest and I look up at him with a silent plea. He tuts softly and taps the tip of my nose with a finger. "Whatever am I going to do with you? You preformed very poorly for Mr. Erikson; he complained and then didn't sign our agreement." I tremble slightly in his hold, my teeth coming out to clamp over my already abused lip. My Master arches an eyebrow, eyes narrowing into a glare; his nails dig into my scalp more, causing a breathy cry to be pulled from me.

"I'm sorry, sir." I say quietly, pleading with my gaze. _Don't hurt me, please stop please don't hurt mestopstopstop--_ I lower my eyes to the messy bed, my bruised and cut thighs tangled in the dark blue bed-spread, my Master's own bare legs caging me in. "I can do better, _please_." 

My Master sighs again and the expression of anger washes completely from his face. He indulges me with a genuine smile, soft and only a tad remorseful; the fingers in my hair turn gentle, causing a feeling of relief wash through me and curl in my gut. Tugging me onto his lap, I stifle the urge to flinch when I feel him hard against my inner thigh. His mouth finds the juncture of where shoulder meets neck, hot tongue sweeping quickly over my fluttering pressure point; my hands shake when I guide him into me, already stretched loose from 'entertaining' his business associates. 

He rewards my compliance by being gentle, rocking slowly into me and allowing me to build up my own sort of pleasure. His hands sweep over my sides, caressing every inch of my body and laying me down onto the bed as if I were made of glass. I allow my eyes to fall closed, loose and completely at his will, moaning when I need to and arching into his touch; the teeth that graze my neck remind me of punishments for later if I'm not good, and the fingers tracing idle patterns over my hip bones leave promises of crushed wind pipes if I try to escape.

My Master allows me to come first, large hand cradling my cock as if it's a prize and milking it until I'm sure I'm dry. He bends me till I feel like I'm going to break, losing all pretense of gentleness and just take take taking. I whimper and allow tears to well at the corner of my eyes, watching as a ghost of a smile flirts with the corner of his mouth when he leans down to lick them away. My Master comes inside of me, shuddering and clawing at my hips; I make a tiny face at the feeling of come leaking from me, but wipe the expression away before he can see. 

His heavy body falls on top of mine, causing air to whoosh out of my lungs; a come covered finger traces sticky patterns over my skin. "I'll be having Mr. Erikson stop by tomorrow again; he _will_ satisfied, understand?" 

I swallow thickly, my entire body feeling completely used and filthy. I feel my Master smirk against my neck, but I nod slowly. "Yes, sir." He presses a dry kiss to my skin, drawing a come-sticky heart over my own. 

"Good boy." 

()()

I can't remember a time when I had been happy. I have feared for my life each and every day that I can remember, never once feeling safe enough to even experience emotions of other than _terror_ and _depression_. 

Several times, I've attempted to kill myself, however my Master has surveillance cameras everywhere; the self-inflicted scars from numerous attempts have now been covered by hand shaped bruises and the burning tips of knives (electrical cords, lighters, cigarettes...) I want to scratch off my skin, peel back layers and layers of abuse until I finally feel _clean_ (it's not something I've ever felt). 

Laying on one of the guest beds clad in heavy jewelry and red silk, I watch impassively as one of my Master's business partners crawls forward on the plush carpet. My expression is impassive and I barely contain the shudder of disgust when his tongue runs from the tip of my right big toe all the way up my leg. 

This man I've had more than once, and thankfully he's the least rough of any of them; one of his hands follows the wet trail, plucking away the silk swatch covering my lap. I try to think of arousing things to make myself hard, but his hand on my over sensitive cock is uncomfortable. I wince and squirm, trying not to make any noise of displeasure; the man lifts his face from licking my thigh, expression growing confused as he tries tugging on my cock a few more times. 

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes darting away from his accusing gaze. "I'm sorry..." My fingers twist in the sheets, body tensing when the man rocks back on his heels and stands. He pulls on rumpled clothing and storms from the room muttering. For a few seconds, I swallow a few lungfuls of air before darting up from the bed and padding quickly to the window. 

Gazing out over the street and to people milling past on the sidewalk floors below, I chew at my lip and calculate how far I would have to fall in order to die. My fingers fumble over the locks and when I try to push open the window, I make a pained sounding noise when it won't open all the way. I try to push at it more and more, but the days of constant fucking, abuse and lack of food has caught up with me; my hand smacks uselessly against the glass, and with a choked sob, I crumple to the ground. 

Curling in on myself, I don't look up when I hear my Master's calm footsteps approach. He lets out a soft sigh, and suddenly I'm being tugged up by my hair, a loud cry falling out of my mouth as my hands lift to his to attempt to get free. My Master's face is surprisingly calm as he shakes me like a dog; I whimper and cower slightly, wishing that I had been able to get the window open all the way. 

()()


	2. Ventriloquism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: rape trauma

Years after the window incident, my master over-took an island; he strokes my hair and whispers about his plan to kill M (who's M? I wonder, his mouth trailing lightly over my throat). 

He laughs as he destroys economies, tears down firewalls, blows up the MI-6 building in London; he fucks me against his computer desk in celebration and digs his nails into my hips.

His guards eye me hungrily and when one of them dare to touch me, my master presses a gun into my hand and whispers to shoot. 

He speaks of an agent favoured by M (007, a man talked about in hushed whispers on the island between the crooks my Master has hired as his guards), and the thought makes him hiss. My Master cups my jaw, tugging me up from where I was sprawled on the bed and gazes at me. The pad of his calloused finger trails over my cheekbone, his mouth perked into a lazy smile. "We'll be having a visitor soon, dearest." 

"007?" He presses a dry kiss to my forehead and ruffles my curly hair. 

"Clever boy." His fingers trail down my neck and pet the skin until he pulls away. "I'll send Severine to pick him up; won't that be fun?" My Master cackles merrily and leaves to call the former prostitute; I watch his retreating back before risking to hope that this '007' is worth the scorn he receives. 

()()

I'm stowed away in a room, the window overlooking the courtyard; my feet are bare and crunch on dusty broken glass when I step back. With a quiet hiss, I grit my teeth against the pain.

I see movement in the courtyard; two of my Master's men drag a bruised and bloody Severine to the cracked statue that permeates the courtyard. They slap her and I can see tears blot the corners of her eyes, but she grits her teeth and doesn't cry out. 

Minutes later, my Master struts into the courtyard followed by another man. "007..." I breathe, stepping over the broken glass to press my face against the window. 

He's a sturdy looking man, looking to be around my height give an inch; he looks relaxed, but the line of his shoulders are drawn tight like a bow string. 

My Master talks, overdramatic as he sweeps his hands in a wide arch; I can see his grin glinting from here (" _Don't trust them." He grabs me by the throat, forcing me to look at his gaping maw, burnt raw by cyanide_.) 

He swans up to Severine, glass of scotch in one hand; she resists the press of his lips against hers, and I can tell she quells down the urge to shudder when he balances the glass of scotch on her head. 

_"Don't move, my darling._ Balance. _" I swallow thickly, keeping my spine straight. My master cocks his shiny handgun, fingers sweeping over it lovingly while grey eyes shoot up to the glass perched on my head._

_His hand is steady as he aims, easily knocking off the glass of scotch; I release a loud breath and he laughs in delight, tossing the gun away and clapping his hands like a child. "You did wonderful!"_

I flinch when my Master shoots Severine almost in boredom. There's a pregnant pause between the two men before 007 acts, body shooting off like lightening. I hold my breath, pressing tighter against the window; my Master holds his hands up in surrender, lazy grin on his face. 

The sound of helicopters is deafening. 

()()------()()

"Mr. Bond, I have a request." Bond looks away from watching a medic examine him; Silva grins crookedly, looking all too comfortable in his chains as he shifts his shoulders. "I have a...pet that needs to be taken care of while I'm gone. The poor boy gets lost in his head far too much. he needs a strong hand--" The man is shoved away, his sentence broken by a harsh sounding laugh as Bond curses sharply and tugs away from the medic. 

"Search the island," He barks, pulling on his bloodied white shirt. "We may have a civilian somewhere." Agents scuttle away, shouldering their guns and pocketing their talkies. 

Bond scans the area, looking for any movement in the empty windows; he sucks in a breath when he sees a flicker of shadows. 

He takes off like a bullet, not caring if the echos from his footsteps give away his position; he comes to a door, locked when he tries the knob. There's a scuffling noise inside, a muffled whimpering and the sound of broken glass. 

Bond lifts a leg and kicks open the door, gun held at the ready; the room is small, once a living area while the other rooms and hallways are blocked off. Bond's eyes scan the room, locking on the slender figure huddled in the corner. 

Large grey-green eyes peek out from under a fringe of messy dark brown hair; the boy(?) unfolds from his curled position, pink lips trembling slightly. He looks no older than eighteen , something that causes Bond's stomach to clench in disgust. 

The boy flinches away when Bond steps forward, holstering his gun. "Who are you?" He asks, watching the way the boy's eyes flicker to the exit behind him then back to the agent's face. Bond lets out a sigh, feeling tired and far too _old_ to be dealing with this..."I'm not going to hurt you...just tell me who you are." He holds out a hand, fingers curled slightly into the palm; it's a gesture that works well with wounded and cornered animals, the same applies to this situation. 

The boy stares at the offered hand for a few minutes, expressions flitting between frightened and curious. Finally, he rests his thin hand in the agent's, uncurling fully to stand. "Q." His voice cracks like static, but Bond tightens his fingers around Q's.

()()------()()

I'm led to some sort of base came that has MI-6 agents flitting about and cataloging different pieces of my Master's computers. 

007 holds my hand the entire time, the palm calloused and warm against my own; it makes me feel ridiculously safe, the feeling new and frightening as it settles in my gut. 

I observe everything with wide eyes, astounded by the amount of people. "Q." I lift my gaze from agents taking apart one of my Master's computers, memorizing every piece of wire and chip that spills out of the technology. 007 looks uncomfortable, but his fingers squeeze mine once. "Medical needs to see if you're injured..." I know why he's uncomfortable; the medics will have to see if I've been sexually abused...I feel my breath catch in my throat.

"Don't...please don't leave me." I say, eyes wide and fingers clawing at his hand. 007 shifts from one foot to the other and sighs, pulling his hand from my own. 

"I'm not allowed to be there." I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling my hands shake at my sides; swallowing thickly, I nod, releasing a long sigh and wiping my expression away. I move stiffly toward the tent that has a large red cross on the side, ignoring the slightly perturbed look that had settled on 007's face.

The medics are kind and have gentle hands as they peel away the dirty shirt I had thrown on that morning before being dragged to the room. One of the medics, a woman with kind brown eyes and strawberry blonde hair helps me dress in a paper gown and guides me to sit on the makeshift hospital bed. "I'm going to have to ask you a few questions while we start, alright?" 

I'm gently pushed down, my heart racing while they move my legs into stirrups; I swallow back the bile I can feel raising in my throat and try to focus on the kind doctor's voice. "How long have you been in captivity?" There's a hand categorizing the patchwork of scars I have on my thighs, a pen scratching loudly on a clip board. ("Numerous lacerations over the legs; repeated trauma to the skin, burn wounds...")

"I-I don't know." I'm asked by the doctor prodding at me to remove the paper gown; I suck in a breath and do as I'm told, resisting the urge to hold the flimsy garment to me. Cold fingers barely touch my skin, noting the bruises and marks. 

"How many people have you been sexually active with during your time in captivity?" They ask me softly if I can lay back down and put a screen over the top of my legs so I don't see what they have to do next. I hold back a cry when I feel surgically cold fingers covered by gloves press. 

"I don't know..." My voice is shaky and I can feel hot tears clawing at the undersides of my eyes. ("Extreme trauma to the rectum...recent but there's evidence it's been happening for quite a while...") My fingers claw at the makeshift hospital bed, and I'm shaking so hard I think I might fall off of it. The female doctor swallows and looks down to her clip board.

"What is your name?" 

"I don't know!" I shriek, my voice cracking and giving away to sobs. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hot tears falling into my hair and making me feel even more disgusting than I already am. "I don't know, I don't _know_..."

()()----()()

The plane ride back to England is uneventful given that Q has been heavily sedated. The boy is curled up on one of the chairs, hair cropped neatly and curling about his ears; his face isn't pinched in his sleep like Bond thinks it would be. He looks almost peaceful...

The agent sighs loudly and looks out the window, fingertips drumming idly on the arm of his chair. Q hasn't left his side since leaving the medical tent; he looked far too frightened and lost that it tugged at Bond's heart and he immediently offered his hand for the boy to cling to.

He looks down at the slim file they've already compiled about Q, Silva obviously not caring if they knew or else Bond is sure they would have never found anything...He opens the file, re-reading the lines he's already memorized, blue eyes studying the small black and white picture of a happily grinning five-year old Q.

_David Quentin Williams_

_DOB: 14 October, 1985_

_Mother NATALIA EMIN, affiliated with the Russian KGB; disappeared from KGB records in 1980. Married BENJAMIN WILLIAMS under the name KATRINA KOVAL in 1981. **DECEASED**_

_Father BENJAMIN WILLIAMS, chemical physicist. Spouse to NATALIA EMIN alias KATRINA KOVAL. **DECEASED**_

_DATE MISSING: 3 June, 1990_

Bond sips absentmindedly at the scotch he had ordered hours ago and looks away from Q's file; the boy shifts and wakes groggily, eyes opening slowly before a loud yawn works its way from his mouth. "...w-where am I?" He asks, body still under the effects of the sedatives; Bond reaches over and loops his fingers through Q's, watching as the boy relaxes minutely. 

"You're safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I haven't abandoned this fic! It's just been taking awhile because I've been not very inspired to write it...ahhh but anway, hope you're enjoying so far.


	3. Machinima

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this has been a long time coming; I want to apologize from the bottom of my heart at how long it took for this to update.

London is a bustling city that verges on familiar. I take in the tall buildings with a wide eyes wonder, hand still tight around 007's while we're ushered into a government car. 

He's being very patient with me, and I'm waiting for it to run out. 

I'm still feeling dull from the sedatives that I was administered before the flight; my head feels like it's floating pleasantly, causing me to smile loosely at the agent I'm clinging to. He looks away, moth pinched and brows furrowed; I ignore the stab of sadness that his expression leaves me with. 

The MI-6 building is in the center of the city; I can see the remnants of the destruction my Master had reaped on the serious looking facade, a thought that causes my skin to itch. 

The car pulls into a lower level, casting both 007 and I in a brief bout of darkness. "What will happen to me?" I ask in a small voice, the shadows moving quickly over the agent's stone-like face. 

"I'm not sure." He is honest, something that is only a fraction of comforting. "But I'll protect you." 

The car stops, and 007 leads me through a labyrinth of hallways bustling with people who send us both curious gazes. I cower behind the agent, the itch under my skin becoming more and more with every glance we receive. 

We stop outside of a glass lined office; inside I can see an older woman conversing with an older man. They appear to be arguing, the man shaking his head before turning and stomping out into the hall. He stops with a small noise of surprise, greeting the agent with a slightly exasperated smile. "007, I'm glad to see that you're back in one piece."

The agent nods stiffly. "Quartermaster." He levels a look at the older woman who's shuffling papers with an expression of distaste. "What were you arguing with her about?" I stare at the older man from behind 007's shoulder, taking in the ruffled silver hair and ugly mustard yellow jumper. 

He sighs which causes the hair of his bushy mustache to fly upwards; I stifle the urge to laugh, not wanting to draw attention to myself. "Silvia's computers," I feel 007 tense at the mention of my Master. "She wants us to crack into them by tonight, but I told her that was asking for a bloody miracle!" 

I see wires and endless line of code flash over my mind's eye; the sleepless nights of my Master explaining how to write an impenetrable firewall with a few keystrokes. I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. 

"I can help."


	4. Sutradhara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sutradhara: "The Holder of Strings"

It takes twenty minutes for me to crack my Master's code, and only a few seconds for it all to go to hell. 

The doors that lead to the underground open, and I'm vaguely aware of my voice whispering what was happening; all the agents' faces are pinched in surprise, and when 007 shoots off like a gunshot, expression stony, I know I must have done something.

"How the _hell_ did he get into our system?" The Quartermaster barks, but I look at the computer screen set before me and feel bile rush up my throat when it changes. _Not such a clever boy._ Red pixel hearts begin to bleed and laughing skulls dance across my eyes. I want to scream, but the wailing of alarms quells the urge as I'm hastily shoved away by the old man. 

"Get him into containment!" Two burly agents who are standing near the door rush to grab me, their hands vice-like around my skinny arms. I don't want to see the expression of betrayal cross over the Quartermaster's face, because _of course_ he would think I did this on purpose. 

_Not such a clever boy._ I'm taken out into the hall and led to a room where I'm locked up. The walls are glass, though, and I watch as agents scurry passed; they barely give me a second glance, though one woman with dark skin and even darker eyes stares at me for a moment before someone yells at her to get a move on. 

Tears claw at my eyes, but I shove them down and curl in on myself. My heart pounds against my breast bone, and my hands shake violently. I can nearly hear my Master laughing in delight, and wonder what 007 will think of this turn of events. _He'll think you're a traitor._ My mind hisses, and I bite down on my tongue to stop the tears. _They'll have you executed, or worse, give you back to Master._

I fall into a fitful sleep, and can nearly hear the sound of a train echo through my head. 

()()

"Where is he?" The whip-crack voice of the leader of the MI-6 wakes me up from my sleep. 

I open my eyes groggily, and flinch back from the light that suddenly bursts in the room. I'm under a table, curled in a tight ball and gaze at a pair of shoes. I'm not given any time before I'm pulled up roughly, my arms bound behind my back and secured with cold metal handcuffs. The MI-6's leader's face is pinched in anger, though I can see lines of worry at the corner of her eyes; a thick gauze pad is secured to her shoulder, and she looks very pale. I swallow thickly, and know deep in my heart that my Master is still out there. _Not such a clever boy._

"Get him to an interrogation room." She commands, and I allow my gaze to flicker from her face to 007's, who stands just at the door way. His eyes are like two points of ice as they stare me down, expression unreadable as I'm led away from the room. 

They allow me to wallow for what seems to be an hour, no doubt trying to psych me out by depriving me of any sort of relief. I tug at my fingers, one by one, and scratch at my skin; I know they're observing me from the other room, waiting for me to crack and confess to sins I never committed. I try to blot out the image of 007's accusing stare and press my hands against my eyes until I see stars. 

The door squeezes open almost ominously. I tear my hands from my face and sigh in either relief or disappointment when an older man with a bald head briskly walks in. He has a notebook secure under one arm and a slim manila folder in hand. He sits across from me and we stare at one another before he opens the folder.

"David Quentin Williams," He glances over the rims of his glasses, searching my face for...what? His eyes flicker away and back to the folder. "Born the fourteenth of October, 1985. Mother, Natalia Emin and father, Benjamin Williams; both deceased. Date missing, the third of June, 1990." He folds over the folder and puts it neatly to the side. "Does that mean anything to you?" 

I stare at him for a moment, brows furrowed in confusion and shake my head slowly. The man sighs softly and grabs a pen from his breast pocket; he jots down a few notes, his handwriting neat and precise enough that I'm able to read it upside down. _Subject has no recollection of past._

He meets my eyes once more and folds his hands around the pen, fingers woven between one another. I'm chewing at the inside of my mouth until the coppery taste of blood fills my senses; I swallow it, and feel a little more energized. "To begin, I'm going to give you a series of words and you'll just say the first word that pops into your head; for example, I'll say 'Hand' and you may say 'Foot'. Do you understand?" 

I nod; the overhead lights buzz lowly, and I can feel tremors running up and down my arms. "Good. Let's begin: Child." 

"Slave." 

"...man." 

"Pain." 

"Woman?" 

"Dead." 

"Silva." 

"Master." 

The man stares at me for a moment and then turns to his notebook, pen flying over the pages. I don't read what he has to say, my heart thudding to loud for me to focus. "How long were you in captivity, Mr. Williams?" 

The name pops against my skin like fireworks, and in the back of my mind I can see a man; he has dark hair, like mine, and a smile that's smudged at the corners. I can almost smell something cloying, like a hospital's antiseptics; a sound like a heart monitor echoes through my head, and I don't realize that the man has been calling for...someone (who is 'Mr. Williams'?). 

I pull myself from my mind, and the man is staring at me like I'm something fascinating. I swallow thickly, wanting to retch but have nothing in my stomach. "I'm done." I whisper, my hands curling into fists on the metal table. The man sighs through his nose and stands; the door clicks behind him with the sound of finality, and I stare at the mirror, wondering if 007 is in there, watching me. 

"Please." I whisper, "Whatever you think I did, I didn't." 

The room remains quiet.


End file.
